Orchha

It was back to the train station the next day. One of the great things about India (and there are many great things about India!) is that you can get anything repaired anywhere at any time. Agra railway station is full of men with well-stocked kits ready to repair your shoes, suitcases, bags, zips, clothes and anything else that is not perfect. I had bought a cheap backpack for this trip, and abandoned my large suitcase in Delhi. I had also bought a cheap daypack. Both of them began falling apart within minutes of being purchased. So at Agra railway station a man stitched the straps on my backpack, repaired the carrying handle, reinforced the daypack (which was coming apart) and stitched up my 10-year-old Teva sandals, which had seen service in a civil war in Bougainville and I was not about to give up now. The photo above shows him hard at work. After a few minutes and a very few rupees, everything was good to go. My Tevas have years left in them (or so I felt).


We took the train from Agra to Jhansi where we boarded tempos, which are basically large versions of auto-rickshaws. An hour or so later we were in Orchha, a fabulous little town in the middle of nowhere. It had once been a royal seat of power and so it had an inordinate number of palaces and temples, and not much else. We slept in tents and were helpfully provided with padlocks to secure them. I think that they were more decorative than serving any useful function in preventing theft from a tent!


The next day (16th November) we toured the main old palace. We then wandered about town, which consists of only a few streets with a massive temple at the centre. We visited another temple, dedicated to Lakshmi, which had fascinating wall carvings of historical events. Of most interest to me was the depiction of the British soldiers coming to this area in the 1790’s, complete with arms full of wine bottles and feathers in their hats (see photo). My own ancestors were in the British Army and spent a few years storming about this area putting down opposition to British rule. I wonder whether they carried wine bottles into battle?

In the late afternoon a few of us hired a raft and rowed down the Betwa River. It was a wonderful sight with wild jungle on one side and something like 27 temples and palaces on the other side of the river. At a quiet point we swam in the river and just enjoyed the stillness.

Later that evening we went to the Ram Raja temple to watch puja (Hindu worship). Elke and I went up to the idol of Ram Raja where the priests offered blessings for a short period each day. Elke was trying to buy a house back home in Holland and she asked Ram Raja to resolve it all quickly. We returned to our little tents and within half an hour Elke received a phone call from her boyfriend in Holland telling her that the house purchase was all settled. So well done Ram Raja!


The following morning was the 11th after Diwali and so another Hindu festival was held. There seems to be almost one a day. Thousands of women came down to the banks of the Betwa River to do puja and ceremonially cleanse themselves. Gurus (religious teachers) and sadhus (holy men) abounded and there were flowers strewn about the streets to grace their steps. It was a wonderful morning and people were only too happy to explain what was going on and what it all meant.

we had a cooking class with a local family, which was just brilliant, and then we headed by tempo back to Jhansi and the railway station. This time we boarded the overnight train to Allahabad.

What can you say about an overnight train in India? Well, let’s start with noisy, crowded, dirty, alternately freezing cold and boiling hot, smelly, did I mention noisy and crowded? We were in six-berth ‘cabins’ that were only separated by curtains from the corridor and the next ‘cabin’. Men and women, Indians and foreigners, young and old were all mixed in together. Two of our group, Martin and Rob, were over six feet tall and had a very uncomfortable time in the narrow, short bunks built for Indians. Nevertheless, it was just another Indian experience for those of us who were a bit shorter, and I had a reasonable, if often interrupted, night’s sleep. We arrived in Allahabad just after dawn, and visited the family home of Jawaharlal Nehru and Indira Ghandi. Then a jeep took us to banks of the River Ganges for the next part of our journey.

Agra

We caught the 6am train from Delhi to Agra. As usual, the Delhi railway station was completely packed. About 200 homeless boys are alleged to live at the railway station, and there are dozens of complete families that just sleep on the platforms at night. What was unusual about that morning was that just as we were about to board our train, one of our group spotted a woman giving birth, right there on the platform. There was nothing much we could do, and she had a man with her (presumably her husband) who was helping so we just had to leave.





We arrived in Agra about three hours later and visited the Agra Red Fort (not to be confused with Delhi’s Red Fort). It was very impressive and there was a lot more to see than in the Delhi fort. From the balconies the Taj Mahal was visible, but as is common in India, it was shrouded in a mix of dust, mist and pollution. We visited the room where Shah Jahan, who built the Taj Mahal to honour his favourite wife Mumtaz, was imprisoned by his son Aurangzeb. He spent the last 7 years of his life forlornly gazing at the Taj from his prison, until he finally joined Mumtaz there.


In the afternoon we visited the Taj Mahal itself. Well, it’s everything you expect. It was heaving with people, foreigners and Indians in their thousands. As was becoming common at tourist spots, we were often stopped by total strangers and asked to pose with them in photos. My new-found Dutch friend and room-mate, Elke, was a particular target for photograph-seeking Indians and the photo above shows people lined up to have their picture taken with her.


We queued for about an hour to get in and the length of the queue can be seen in the photo. The queue wound its way around the forecourt, then up to the first level, where it can be seen again winding its way around the building itself. Twice during the queuing, hundreds of Indians at the end of the queue suddenly charged the front of the queue (since they faced each other) and it all became an enormous crushing scrum. Soldiers beat and kicked people until a new queue was formed from the great mass of people. It is easy to see how people die in crowd stampedes here.

The outside of the Taj Mahal is far more interesting than the inside, which is almost pitch-black and had soldiers shouting at people telling them not to take photos, whilst hundreds of people pushed and shoved to get close to the enclosure which held the graves of Mumtaz and Shah Jahan. We left almost as soon as we had entered, and continued to take photos outside as the sun set. So here is the obligatory 'Taj Mahal at sunset' photo. Enjoy!

Starting out towards Kathmandu

I started the Delhi-Kathmandu overland trip on 13th November. I was not really very excited about it, because I was more focussed on the fact that I was leaving Delhi and was already missing my boys in Mayapuri. The trip is run by Intrepid and is basically a backpacking trip but with a group leader who does all the things that are so confusing and infuriating in India, like booking sleeping berths in trains or organising boats and oarsmen. I joined the group without much enthusiasm and with few expectations, but it was to turn out to be one of the best journeys of my life.

The group consisted of 12 travellers (including myself) plus our group leader, Vivek. Our nationalities were 5 Australians, 3 Argentineans, 2 English girls, a Dutch girl and a young New Zealander. Some were in couples, others were travelling alone; some were in India for the first time, others were old hands; some were in their twenties and others in their sixties, with a range in between. Over the next 15 days I was to become very close to them all and share some great experiences.


We started out on the first afternoon with a walking tour of Old Delhi. As is common in India, absolutely nothing went according to plan, but we ended up having a great time nevertheless. We went to the Metro (underground railway) station but the queues were enormous even by Indian standards and there appeared to be no movement of any kind. So Vivek suggested that we catch a local bus instead. There was an enormous crush of traffic, not just the usual Delhi chaos, so after an hour in the bus and still a kilometre and a half from our destination, we hopped off the bus and started walking. Pushing through the ever-thickening crowds (see photo above), we finally made it to the Jama Masjid in Old Delhi. By this time it was 5pm and prayer time, so we simply walked around the outside waiting for it to open again. By the time it re-opened, there was only 20 minutes left before closing time.

Readers of earlier posts to this blog will recognise that visiting the Jama Masjid was an unpleasant experience for me, and so I had no intention of paying Rs 200 to repeat it. I waited outside with Vivek, who also refused to go in as he had also had unpleasant experiences there in the past. Of course, our experiences were not like the two tourists who were shot on the steps of the Jama Masjid just before the Commonwealth Games, nevertheless it is an unwelcoming place. In some ways I was glad to hear that Vivek had had a similar experience to mine – now I know it’s not just me!

Vivek is an incredibly good group leader – very knowledgeable about everything around him, well-organised, cheerful and most importantly, flexible. After the rest of the group had visited the Jama Masjid, we traipsed through the packed alleyways of Old Delhi. It would have been good to spend more time exploring the tiny shops but it was now dark, as it had taken us so long to get to Old Delhi. Vivek found a miniscule shop that sold parathas (fried unleavened bread with vegetable fillings). The group shared a long table with bemused Indians, who stared at the funny foreigners sharing their hand sanitizer lotion whilst making hand motions as though they were worshipping the food.


Although it was now pitch-black, we headed off to the gurdwara (Sikh temple). Again, we only had a few minutes because it had taken us so long to travel there. The gurdwara feeds anyone who is hungry and asks for food, so we visited their enormous kitchens to see the food prepared. The photo is of a machine that makes 100 chapattis a minute, and there were vats of boiling dal that were large enough to hold several people.


When we made it out to the streets, we could not move for all the people, and we saw an enormous procession of dancers, bands, puppets, people carrying what looked like lit chandeliers (see photo below) and trucks packed with Hindu statues. We had stumbled upon a religious festival to commemorate one of the incarnations of Vishnu, and this explained why the traffic had been so appalling, even by Delhi standards. The police had blocked most of the roads around Old Delhi. The streets were a chaotic mass of people in various costumes, doing various unexplained things and the noise from the crowds and all the brass bands was deafening. This is life in Delhi.


The next problem was trying to get back to the hotel. We tried the Metro again, but as before there was a seething mass of literally thousands of people trying to get tickets. People were pushing and shoving, and it looked like a fight broke out at one of the ticket counters. There was a lot of shouting. So we retreated to the crowded streets. No buses seemed to be running and we walked for a kilometre or two in search of some form of transport. Eventually Vivek found an auto-rickshaw driver who was willing to take us to Karol Bagh (where we were staying) for an exorbitant fee, to which we all agreed immediately. So there we were: 7 passengers, plus the driver, stuffed into an auto. Now these vehicles are about the size of two large washing machines, so you can imagine how cramped we were and how many body parts were sticking out of the vehicle. It was the most uncomfortable half hour of my life, but it was also tremendous fun. There was lots of laughter and general hilarity as we tried not to poke each other in bits of the anatomy that hurt most. It was great fun and everyone was in high spirits despite the discomfort, the lateness of the hour and the ridiculous price we paid for it all. I knew I was going to get along with this group.

Leaving Delhi

After only a few short weeks, my time in Delhi came to an end. It seemed like I was only just getting into the swing of things and everything was working out brilliantly. Some time ago I had booked an overland trip to Kathmandu, so my departure date was fixed at 13th November. By this time, by sheer coincidence (or the Grace of God, depending on your perspective) Sam had appeared in Delhi to take over the teaching at Mayapuri. I was the last of the English Teaching Volunteers for 2010, and it had looked like the English program at Mayapuri would end when I left.

But it didn’t work out that way. I introduced Sam to my beloved boys and they took to him straight away. My last day in Mayapuri was Thursday 11th November and we had several parties.

First of all there was the final unit test for the little boys and I’m delighted to say that they all did very well. Then I gave them all little gifts of tennis balls and matchbox cars, while I received a snow globe of the Taj Mahal that lights up when a button is pressed – something I will always treasure. :-) We ate a stack of party food that I had brought with me. I was worried that I would have too much, but it was all gone in seconds. We then danced to Bollywood tracks and generally had a great time. Then they all had to go to regular school – full of sugar and fizzy drinks! :-)


My university students, Mananjay, Ranjan and Vinod, then came and I gave them all kurtas – traditional shirts that Indian men wear. Most of the time they seemed to have only two T-shirts and I presumed that they didn’t have ‘good’ clothes for celebrations. They seemed to like the kurtas and they looked great in them.


I went and visited their families and drank chai, then we played cricket in the concrete yard of the Asha centre. I can tell you that it’s jolly difficult playing cricket in a salwaar kameez and dupatta! We shared a meal together, along with the staff of the Asha centre at Mayapuri. Then it was off in my auto-rickshaw to the next phase of my life.

Learning in Delhi

Three years ago Asha began a program to encourage and support children from the slums to go to university. In 2010 a record 170 slum children gained admission to top universities and professional colleges in Delhi, thanks to Asha. Their fees and expenses will be paid by Asha, with much of the financial support coming from individual donors who sponsor a university student throughout their studies.

To celebrate the achievement of the 170 children gaining admission to university, Asha held two functions: a sort of pre-cursor function at the Australian High Commission and the main function for hundreds of people, including the Home Minister. A week before the functions were to be held, a teacher from England arrived, called Sam. As it turns out, he was to become my replacement at Mayapuri, although we didn’t know that at the time. With Sam fresh off the plane from England, and me in my grubby salwar kameez after spending all day in an industrial zone, it was announced by Asha that Sam and I would form the media relations team for Asha. We were to start inviting all the journalists in Delhi to the main function on 15th November.

This was a whole new learning experience for me. Having previously worked for the Department of Defence in Australia, I had spent years assiduously avoiding media attention and treating all journalists with suspicion. The nicest thing I would have said about journalists was that they were all drunks and liars so they probably couldn’t help the rubbish that they were writing. Asha in its wisdom thought I would be good at currying their favour.

So for a week, I spent each morning teaching in Mayapuri, then took an auto-rickshaw back to the office, arriving at about 2pm or so. Sam spent all morning on the phone and the internet, trying to set up meetings with journalists, who were always completely non-committal about their availability. At about 3pm, Sam and I would pile into a car with Jibin (who knew where all the journalists were to be found) and Bimal (our driver), then we would spend the next 5 or 6 hours going from office to office, spinning our yarn. Sam did most of the talking in English, whilst I stood around holding press releases and folders, trying to look intelligent (or potentially violent if they didn’t look like they were listening to Sam). Jibin did all the talking in Hindi to get us past all the security guards, while Bimal drove round and round waiting for us to finish. There is never anywhere to park in Delhi.
We had been instructed to be ‘politely pushy’ and not take ‘no’ for an answer. We were not to leave the media offices until we spoke to someone who looked like they cared, and took our press release from us with a commitment to attend the function. By a combination of this approach, plus good humour, downright sneakiness (Jibin often knew where the back doors were) and a bit of luck, we were able to tell our story to about 60 newspapers, TV stations and agencies.

The one glaring exception was the BBC, which has an office in Delhi. Despite all our best efforts, we never got past the guards at the front desk. This is particularly funny because Sam’s father actually works for the BBC and had given him contact names and phone numbers. All to no avail. In India, things usually get done thought knowing someone, but apparently that doesn’t apply at the BBC.


The event at the Australian High Commission went off really well, with several of the new university students telling their stories. The Australian High Commissioner, Peter Varghese, pledged 1,000,000 rupees towards Asha's Higher Education Program. He also presented Asha with a cheque for 200,000 rupees. This money had been collected personally by the Australian athletes during the Commonwealth Games, and was a series of private donations. It was tremendously generous of them, especially given how poorly-paid most Aussie athletes are, but the money has gone to an incredibly good cause. It made me proud to be Australian – this was better than all those gold medals. Thank you Australian Commonwealth Games team and thank you Australian High Commission. :-)

Eating in Delhi

As mentioned, I lived in a flat in Delhi with the other English teachers of Asha, so we were responsible for our own meals. Anjuli is a great cook of dal (cooked lentils) and so we were sometimes treated to home-made dal and rice. Jess practiced making chapattis (flat bread) several times before perfecting the technique the night before she left Delhi. My cooking tended to be less adventurous, consisting of pastas and the like, but at least it was filling.

Some nights we were just too tired to cook, and this is where Delhi really comes into its own. Our local market had men selling freshly-cooked samosas (deep-fried pastries filled with spicy potatoes and other vegetables) and mo mos (steamed dumplings filled with chicken or vegetables). They were cheap and really tasty. For 40 rupees (about a dollar) 10 mo mos could be purchased, and it was hard work to finish 10 mo mos in one sitting.

We also sometimes ordered home delivery. Everything is available for home delivery in Delhi, from kebabs, pizzas and McDonald’s through to four-course meals from top restaurants. Even ice-cream can be home-delivered. We never succumbed to ordering McDonald’s in any form, but we did have home-delivery ice-cream from Nerula’s several times. Our favourite home-delivery meal was kathi rolls (not named after me, although that joke was made many times). These are slices of spicy meat that have been cooked as a kebab and wrapped in pita bread. We would usually add lettuce and tomato to bulk it up, then pour over the sweet green chutney that came with it – delicious! And all for less than $2 home-delivered.

We ate out occasionally, but not frequently. I took a photo of a menu at the Grand Godwin Hotel (not nearly as grand as it sounds). I must confess that I didn’t try the ‘fine velvet smooth mice kebab’!


The best restaurant in Delhi (in my humble opinion and that of nearly everyone who has been there) is Punjabi by Nature. As the name implies, it is a Punjabi restaurant and the food is just brilliant: succulent, full of flavour, beautifully presented. For unpaid volunteer English teachers, it was fairly pricey, since we were all counting our rupees, but when we splashed out (usually for a farewell dinner) it was always worth it.

During my stay in India I had one Indian cooking lesson, and learnt to make chai masala (sweet milky tea with ginger and cardamom), aloo ghobi (potatoes and cauliflower), chapattis, dal and several other vegetarian treats. I will be inflicting my Indian cooking on my long-suffering children upon my return!

Worshipping in Delhi

I try to attend church on Sundays wherever I am and am always amazed at the many diverse ways that people worship. When in Delhi I attended a couple of churches with one thing in common - all the services went for three hours. In each case the sermon was about an hour and a half long. Church attendance in India is not for the faint-hearted or uncommitted!

Firstly, I attended an Assemblies of God church, mainly because my landlord went there and every Sunday he offered to take his tenants to his church. It was an interesting experience. I would say that the congregation of about 600 people was 60% Indian, 30% African and 5% each people of European and East Asian descent. I was startled to see so many Africans in an Indian congregation. I was told that most of them came from their respective embassies, which were nearby. I don't know whether it was the presence of the Africans or whether other AOG churches in India are like this, but it was an unusual service (for me). There was over an hour of singing at the beginning, throughout which the congregation stood. With so many people packed into a hall, there wasn't much wriggle room to adjust our feet or even move very much. My feet were tired and I was relieved when the sermon started and we were all allowed to sit down. One sermon was given by a visiting Nigerian preacher who spent the entire time shouting at people and demanding that they shout back if they loved the Lord. He then insisted that all men with studs in their ears come forward, hand him their jewellery and seek repentance. It was a little bizarre. On that occasion, after two full hours of being shouted at (coming after the hour of singing), my landlord suggested that we go home, and we did. I don’t know if anyone was saved that day, but I was no closer to salvation! :-)

On other occasions, the sermon was a more 'reasonable' hour and a half, and was followed by speaking in tongues. For those who have never attended a Pentecostal church, this involves everyone in the congregation shouting, babbling and wailing in non-languages. The devout will say that they are speaking in the language of the angels. The more cynical might suggest that they are just babbling because the preacher has said that if they don't do it, they haven't been possessed of the Holy Spirit. Hearing 600 people babbling and wailing whilst rocking their bodies and shaking violently is quite an experience. All I can say is that the Christian Church is very diverse and people are entitled to worship however they like. But speaking in tongues is not for me.

Another church that I attended was called New Generations, and the congregation was much smaller, perhaps 50 or 60 people. Most of the congregation were from Nagaland in the far northeast of India, plus there were about 20 boys who were HIV positive and lived in a shelter run by members of the church. I enjoyed the worship here – it seemed very lively and the people were sincere. I met an interesting English woman called Sarah who worked amongst prostitutes in a red light district of Delhi – mainly providing support, encouragement, cups of chai and help in dealing with the myriad problems of being an Indian woman without a real home, engaged in an illegal occupation. Sarah was very inspiring.

The sermon at New Generations was conducted in English and translated into Hindi after every few sentences. I found this an excellent way to improve my Hindi. Now my Hindi vocabulary has expanded to include words like salvation, eternal life and unity in spirit – I’m just not sure how useful they will be when I’m arguing with auto-rickshaw drivers! :-)